L4D Brawls
by Jalos
Summary: A series of one-shots revolving around fights between L4D characters.  Submit requests as part of your reviews for a fight you want to see next!  Various pairings / friendships, some of them just hinted at.  Rated T for now.
1. Francis v Ellis and Nick

**Hey guys and gals, 'tis I, Jalos. Reeaaally sorry about sorta abandoning my other stories - I've been having a lot of personal troubles (personal as in relationships, not personal as in… well, the other kind of 'personal') AND getting ready to head of for college… so yeah. My brain is a little fried. To try and get back in the swing of writing, I've started this L4D series of fight oneshots! As it said in the description, you can submit requests for what fight you'd like to see next. All survivors and infected are fair game, but please, try to keep it reasonable! If you could throw in a reason they'd be fighting too that would be great, but if not I'll just make something up.**

**Anyway, on to the first chapter! This time its Francis v Ellis and Nick! Set kinda-sorta in the Passing, if you squint. Enjoy!**

-O-

Lightning seared a flickering path through the billowing ebon clouds, followed soon after by a rolling _KRAK-A-THOOM_ of thunder that rumbled and echoed across the town for several seconds afterward. Rain drizzled from the storm-wracked sky, and the air outside was thick with damp, cloying heat.

"Shit," Francis snarled, slamming his half-empty drink down onto the bar and wishing for air-conditioning. Why did the South have to be so goddamn _hot?_

Down a few stools sat Ellis, the group's resident mechanic and self-appointed morale officer. On any other night he would have been cheerfully spewing stories about his buddies Keith and Dave, or going on about Jimmy Gibbs Jr. or the Midnight Riders. But not tonight. Tonight he sat, an empty bottle in front of him and a second, half-empty, in his hand, staring off into the middle distance with a dreamy look in his eyes.

Down a few more stools sat Nick, the consummate asshole. The insufferable heat and choking humidity had forced him to remove his expensive white suit-jacket, which was now flung over the back of a nearby chair. The con-man sat with his feet propped up on another stool, sipping from a drink glass, looking utterly at ease except for the occasional glances he cast at Ellis. Francis couldn't quite read the emotion in those cool green orbs, but that wasn't exactly a surprise. Nick had a lifetime of experience at being unreadable.

The three sat in a rather awkward silence for a long moment before Ellis broke it. "Man… Zoey is so beautiful…" he mumbled, voice slurred with drink. Francis's head snapped up, eyes locked on like a pair of laser-guided missiles. Nick noticed, and raised his eyebrows at Ellis, glancing meaningfully at the big biker seated a few stools to his right.

Ellis, however, was oblivious. "Y'know…" he proclaimed drunkenly, raising his bottle and staring intensely at the liquid swirling around in it, "When this shit's o'er, I'ma gonna…" he hiccupped, clearly very drunk, then continued "I'ma gonna propose t'her. Just gotta find me a ring."

Nick reached up, massaging the bridge of his nose and glaring from beneath his elegantly swooping eyebrows at Ellis with that same goddamn unreadable emotion in his eyes. If Francis had been paying attention, he would have detected a hint of jealousy in those emerald eyes, but the big biker's focus was completely on Ellis.

Planting his hands on the counter, Francis shoved himself to his feet, stalking over until he stood behind Ellis, fists clenched at his sides. "Hey, asshole," Francis growled dangerously, eyes glinting, "She's taken."

Ellis turned in his chair, looking up at Francis with confusion etched on his features. "Taken?" he said, as if he couldn't comprehend the meaning of the word. Then, understanding bloomed in his eyes, and he said "Ohhhh… yer her boyfriend, are ya?" Nick surreptitiously pushed himself to his feet, fingers dancing on the handle of the pistol holstered at his hip.

"Yeah, pipsqueak. I am," Francis snarled, leaning in closer. "So you better take back what you just said."

"Or what?" Ellis slurred, drawing himself up and puffing his chest out, meeting Francis's eyes defiantly. If he'd been any less reserved, Nick would have screamed at him.

Francis responded by pulling back a fist and delivering a lightning-quick right hook to the side of Ellis's face. The southern boy flew backwards off his stool, tumbling across the floor before rearing drunkenly to his feet. Electing against the gun, Nick grabbed a beer bottle from the bar, flipping it around and holding it like a club. "Or that," Francis spat, dropping into a fighter's crouch and raising his fists.

If Ellis was sober, there was no way he ever would have challenged Francis to a fight. The big biker had six inches of height and a hundred pounds of muscle on him, and calling the fight fair would have been laughable.

However, Ellis was not sober. So he reached down, grabbed a bar stool by two legs, and charged.

Uttering a litany of curses, Nick kicked his stool out of the way and sprinted towards the battling pair, but not before Francis had ducked beneath a stool swing, grabbed Ellis's wrists, and hurled the poor kid across the bar. He tumbled to the floor on the far side in a shower of broken glass, blood and alcohol swirling together on the floorboards as he hauled himself to his feet.

Then Nick came at Francis from the side, bringing the bottle down with a cry. Francis tried to swerve out of the way, but he didn't see the attack coming in time and the bottle smashed over his head. Francis managed to roll with the blow, coming up in a crouch, snarling in pain and rage. Blood and beer were smeared across the side of his head, dripping down his cheek.

Nick took a step forward, bringing a foot up in a snap-kick directed at Francis's ribs. The big biker dodged out of the way, grabbed Nick's leg and swung him around, smashing the gambler into - and through - a nearby table. Ellis, having recovered, leapt off of the bar in a rather un-textbook tackle, plowing into Francis from the back and sending them both to the floor.

Francis was driven to the ground from the suddenness of the physical assault, and he only saved his nose from being broken by turning his face to the side at the last moment. Ellis was straddling his back, but the kid couldn't have weighed more than a hundred-and-eighty pounds, maybe a hundred and ninety. Francis could bench-press twice that. Getting his hands beneath him, he grunted in surprise as Ellis reached down and grabbed his neck. Choking someone from behind isn't easy, but apparently the mechanic was going to give it a try.

With a roar, Francis shoved upwards, getting his legs beneath him and springing to his feet, throwing Ellis backwards and off of him. He turned and took a step forward in time to have his legs taken out from under him by Nick, lying on the ground behind him.

Stopping his fall with his hands, Francis flipped over onto his back as Nick struggled to his feet, bringing a booted foot up and planting it in Nick's face. The con-man's head snapped backward and he staggered back against the wall of the bar, and Francis hauled himself to his feet. The side of his head stung like hell where the shards of broken glass from Nick's bottle had sliced into him, but he grimly ignored it, turning as Ellis staggered towards him, holding a baseball bat.

The mechanic took a swing, which Francis blocked, wincing as pain lanced up the arm he'd used to stop the strike. Stepping forward, Francis took hold of the bat with one hand and drive a fist up into Ellis's gut with the other. All the breath left the mechanic's lungs in a 'whoosh', and Ellis staggered backwards, doubling over and losing his grip on the bat. Francis brought the weapon up to swing, but suddenly Nick grabbed him in a headlock from behind, having recovered surprisingly quickly. Pivoting in what Francis guessed was a judo technique, the con-man introduced Francis's face to the floor, and the biker's vision exploded in white pain as his nose broke from the impact.

Rolling over, Francis kicked out blindly, but missed. He saw the sole of an expensive dress shoe coming down at him, and rolled out of the way just in time, leaving Nick's axe-kick to collide with nothing but the floor. Getting his feet under him, Francis struggled upright, grimly ignoring the blazing pain in his nose. Taking a step forward, Nick threw a straight that Francis caught, then stepped forward and brought a knee up into Francis's side.

Expecting the move, Francis tensed up, absorbing the blow in the layers of muscle wrapped about his midsection, then slugged Nick across the jaw with his best right hook. The con-man spun to the floor, and Francis snatched the baseball bat from the floor, turning as Ellis charged again - damn, but that kid had some guts - with a beer bottle clutched in one hand.

"_Stop!_" A gunshot couldn't have broken up the fight any more effectively than that one word, barked with authority that not only commanded but _expected_ respect and attention. Both Francis and Ellis stopped in mid-swing, turning to look at who had interrupted the fight.

Coach and Rochelle stood in the doorway, the former standing with his fists planted on his hips, sweeping the room with a stern, disapproving glower. The latter had her gun out but not raised, a steely-eyed look of reproof on her face. "What the _hell_ are you doing!" Coach boomed, taking a step forward and jabbing an accusatory finger at the room in general.

No one said anything for a long moment, then Nick, having managed to struggle to his feet, flashed a lopsided - and clearly pained - grin at Coach and said, voice tight, "Just boys being boys, big guy." Rochelle snorted in derision, and Francis leaned back against the nearby wall, reaching up to massage his aching head. Heaving a sigh, Coach shook his head and said "Well, explanations can wait. You three need patched up."

Ellis staggered a bit as he started for the door, and although Nick wasn't in much better shape he walked over and draped the kid's arm across his shoulders, providing support for him. Ellis flashed a smile equal parts gratitude and embarrassment up at the con-man, and Nick just smiled back.

Francis turned and staggered out under his own power, shouldering past Coach and Rochelle. Standing outside, he let the rain wash the blood and beer from his face, grimacing as his nose flared up again. Suddenly, he heard Zoey's voice; "What the hell happened to _you!_" It was laced with worry, and Francis turned, a grin turning up the corners of his mouth. "Hey, babe," he said, enveloping the smaller woman in a hug. He remembered what Nick had said, and his grin turned slightly ironic as he said "Just boys being boys."


	2. Bill v Hunter

**Hey guys and gals! Here, by request from The Badger Boy, is the next chapter - this time, it's Bill in a one-on-one with a Hunter! Enjoy, and remember to submit more requests as part of your reviews!**

-O-

Cold fear slithered up Bill's spine as the slim, lethal muzzle of his M16 swept the midnight alley. His flashlight flickered and spasmed in the last throes of its life, and the rubber grip of his sleek black weapon was slick beneath his fingers. "Louis? Zoey?" he ventured, glancing up and down the barren alley. "Francis? Anyone?" No answer. "Shit."

Thunder rumbled somewhere far away, a faint basso thrum, foreboding and ominous. Bill reached up with his free hand, idly adjusting his beret in a nervous tic he'd developed a long time ago. He had been separated from the rest of his team in a horde attack, and had spent the last five minutes searching the alleys for any sign of his companions. So far he had found nothing.

Then something snarled somewhere behind him. Bill stiffened, muscles strained to a razor's edge, instincts honed in the crucible of warfare screaming at him, forcing him into action. He whirled, rifle up and tracking. His flashlight illuminated a skulking, shadowy figure for a brief fragment of a second before it sputtered and died.

Bill didn't hesitate. His finger tightened on the trigger, and the rifle roared into violent life. The alley was illuminated in stark, strobing light as flame stabbed forth from the M16's muzzle, the rifle's chattering cry shattering the silence as bricks chipped, fragmented and exploded. But the figure was gone, and Bill released the trigger, shivering as silence fell over the alley once more. That had been a Hunter, as sure as he needed a goddamn smoke. And it was living up to its name.

Bill cast a glance up at the tortured sky as the first rain drops spattered down onto his head and shoulders. Apparently the storm had caught up to him. Shaking himself, he started forward at a half-jog, his combat boots thudding dully on the cobblestones. A few zombies lurched out of the gloom at him, but he put them down without much thought. Blood splattered onto the unpainted brick of the buildings lining the alley, and Bill continued on, casting an occasional furtive glance over his shoulder. Where the hell had that hunter gone?

-O-

Prey. Prey had wandered close, at long last. Its smell filled the predator's nostrils, tantalizing and sweet. Ferocious yellow eyes narrowed, and bloody lips pulled back from pointed teeth as an animalistic snarl escaped the predator's jaws. Claws scraped against brick, firm and rough. Bunching its legs, the predator leaped, soaring through the air, spinning around mid-leap and ricocheting off a storefront with another push from its powerful legs. What remained of its mind was a churning mass of hunger and feral bloodlust, and there was only one goal that it strove for, only one objective in its sights.

Prey.

-O-

Bill stopped to rest for a moment, leaning against a dumpster and pulling out his last cigarette pack. Withdrawing one of the three cancer sticks within, he pocketed the pack again and pulled out his lighter. A deft flick and the tip of his cigarette glowed a hellish red, and the lighter was stuffed back into the jacket pocket from whence it came.

Taking a long drag from the cigarette, Bill allowed himself to briefly relax, enjoying the moment of peace. Then he stiffened, his eyes shot wide and his hand flew to the grip of his M16. Something had moved in the alley to his left. He had heard its claws scraping against the cobblestones.

A low growl echoed from the alley walls, and Bill's blood chilled as he whirled, wishing that his flashlight hadn't broken. Nothing moved - nothing visible, at least - and Bill took a step backwards, raising his rifle.

The hunter flew from the shadows like a bloodthirsty hawk, claws outstretched, feral jaws gaping. Bill dove to the side, grunting with pain as he hit the cobblestones at an awkward angle. _Shit, I'm not as fast as I used to be._ The rifle in his hands chattered as it lit the alley in strident flashes of gunfire, but the hunter stayed a step ahead of the storm of lead, zigzagging back and forth across the alley. Then the rifle's harsh roar abruptly ceased as the magazine ran dry, and Bill's heart nearly stopped.

In an instant, the feral creature was atop him, swatting the rifle aside with a clawed hand. Bill's combat knife flashed from its sheath, and the hunter snarled as wan moonlight glittered from the folded steel. With a cry, Bill jabbed upwards, but the hunter dodged out of the way, fast and sinuous as a serpent. Getting his feet beneath him, Bill hauled himself to his feet, cursing his age-weakened legs. Dropping into a knife-fighter's crouch only slightly skewed from disuse, he spat his cigarette out and ground it beneath the heel of his combat boot, then locked eyes with the creature in the alley before him.

The hunter moved first. It was so fast, Bill's eyes could barely keep up with it as it hurled itself to the side, rebounding from the wall and coming at him with flashing claws and bared teeth. Pain blossomed as razor talons slashed across his face, drawing parallel gouges in his cheek and nose and missing his right eye by a bare inch. Crying out in pain and rage, Bill snaked his knife forward in a counter-attack, but the hunter ducked beneath it.

Pressing the attack, Bill stepped forward and brought his free hand around in a hook. The hunter, caught off-guard, took the blow across the face but rolled with it, back up and swinging in an instant. Dodging backwards and wishing he was ten years younger, Bill jabbed forward at the hunter's gut, but it swerved and only received a grazing blow on its side. Infected blood spurted, and the hunter hissed through its teeth.

_Good,_ Bill thought savagely, his teeth flashing in an expression that had nothing to do with a smile. _The son of a bitch is hurt._

Seemingly unaffected by the wound in its side, the hunter lashed out again, scoring a set of gashes down Bill's thigh. Crying out and dropping to one knee as his injured leg gave out, Bill gritted his teeth, feinted low and attacked high. The hunter, its simple mind not grasping the concept of the ruse, fell for it and earned a slash across the face as it tried to dodge the blow that never came.

With an agonized yelp, the hunter leapt backwards, swiping at its face with its hands. Getting his injured leg beneath him and grimly ignoring its protests, Bill brutally shoved himself to his feet and started forward, the knife dripping blood and water onto the rain-slick cobblestones.

When the hunter lowered its claws, Bill saw with grim satisfaction that one of his eyes was gone. Bill's knife had bit deep, and there was a long, bloody gouge running from the beast's left temple to the left side of its mouth. The beast was clearly in immense pain, and it wobbled a little on its feet as it readied itself to fight again. "Come on, you bastard," Bill spat, raising his knife. "I'm still more than man enough to take you on."

The hunter screeched in response, and the only warning Bill got was it bunching its legs beneath it. Then it leapt faster than a striking serpent, and it was only Bill's honed reflexes that saved his life. Swerving to the side, Bill lashed out as the hunter passed, and hot blood splattered his face as his knife struck home. The hunter's leap turned into an awkward tumble, and it rolled as it landed, coming up in a crouch. Giving Bill one last look, it turned and started running down the alley away from him.

"Oh hell no," Bill growled, whipping his handgun from its holster and sighting down the barrel. His first shot missed its mark, blowing a chunk out of the brick wall near the sprinting hunter. His second shot took the beast in its leg, and it pitched forward with a startled squawk. Bill emptied the rest of the clip, firing until the hunter's twitches ceased. Calmly reloading the weapon, he shoved it back into its holster and limped down the alley, leaning down and decapitating the fallen hunter with one slash of his combat knife. Never can be too sure.

"Bill!" The 'Nam vet snapped his head up as the strong, rough baritone cut through the patter of raindrops on stone and brick. Coming down the alley towards him was Francis, a shotgun resting on the huge biker's shoulder, a worried frown on his rough, chiseled features. Behind him were Zoey and Louis, the former looking immensely relieved and the latter scanning the alley behind them for any infected that might have followed them.

Bill's lips split into a relieved grin. "Well, well, well," he said, wiping his knife on the hunter's hoodie and straightening. "Where the hell have you three been?"


End file.
